


To the Circles of the World

by Avatar_Vyakara



Series: Archetypes and Abominations [2]
Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Afterlife, F/M, Paragonism, Primal Sources (The Dragon Prince), Religious Discussion, Souls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2019-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:28:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21697549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Avatar_Vyakara/pseuds/Avatar_Vyakara
Summary: "In sorrow we must go, but not in despair. Behold! we are not bound for ever to the circles of the world, and beyond them is more than memory." --J.R.R. TolkienOn the nature of souls, life beyond death, and what that means when the human and elven worlds start mixing again. Possibly a multi-chapter work should the feeling arise.
Relationships: Callum/Rayla (The Dragon Prince)
Series: Archetypes and Abominations [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1564015
Comments: 3
Kudos: 21





	1. What it Means to Die

_1 AR (After the Return of Azymondias)_

"A brave human indeed," says Ibis one day, "that you gave up your gift so willingly."

"Wait, what?" That was unexpected.

They've been flying northeast of the Storm Spire, over the lands where Ibis hails from. Skywing Elves love mountains almost on principle, he's told Callum; they've built great temples up there where they can almost be isolated in the air. Callum's been strangely excited about those buildings in the sky--maybe it's just part of that strange rush of feelings he's had since he connected with the Sky Primal.

But for now they're camped out on a hill, eating _galabbas_ bread and berries and having a stilted conversation that make Callum miss Rayla all the more.

The Mage of the Skywing elves doesn't leave his meditation pose, arms stretched out to the glory of the heavens. Callum is sitting up, sketching vaguely.

"Your gift," he says. "Your soul."

_That_ was even _more_ unexpected.

"Um...Ibis? Maybe you might run that last sentence by me again? Because if it's about the Dark Magic, I promise you that was only _once_\--"

"You have talked about your encounter before, yes," says Ibis. "And quite understandably, it did you some harm, and then you purged yourself of it. But then to give up your soul afterwards is...well, all the more remarkable."

"You're kind of starting to worry me here," says Callum, a bit more firmly this time. "What do you mean by 'give up my soul'?"

Now the Skywing Mage opens his eyes, lowers his arms, tilts his head like a bird. "You mean you didn't even know?"

"Know _what_? What's to know? Look, I know Dark Magic is bad, but there's _no way_ one bug destroyed my whole soul...right?" Now there's a real fear churning away in Callum's stomach.

"What? Oh, no, no, even if you use Dark Magic once your soul is still capable of regenerating itself."

"The soul that I somehow _lost_?"

Ibis sighs. "This is part of the reason I never wanted to become a teacher," he says, with a rueful smile. "There are so many questions that need answering and quite frankly I can't give you the full story."

Callum feels more than a little irritated by that remark, but somehow remembers to breathe. In, out. In, out. It's bigger than his own body now, he can feel the strength of the air around him, how it eddies and curls in a million, million ways, how Ibis breathes, how (somewhere far away) hopefully Rayla's resting--

"Okay," he says. "There's obviously something nobody told me about when it came to the Primal Sources and Arcana and all that stuff. Maybe you could...enlighten me?"

"Hmm."

* * *

The truth is, Callum isn't really ready for the answer that comes.

The Primal Sources aren't just channels, says Ibis, and they aren't just nature. They're _alive_ in their own right, although not as a human or elf might be alive. Living forces, conduits between the world and its walkers. Getting older and wiser as they go, manifesting in the language chosen by elves and dragons as their own and the runes they carve in the air. Each spell links a being closer and closer to its Source. So close, in fact, that eventually they--

"_Disappear into it_?"

"_Become one_ with it," corrects Ibis, tartly. "It happens to every spirit, of course, but to true Mages before anyone else. I'm rather looking forward to it, myself, emptying out and becoming the very air I now breathe."

"But...what about the _people_?"

Ibis shrugs. "You're still there. You've just...melted into the Sky Primal. You've attained something greater than who you were before." He looks at Callum proudly, a fond smile flashing across his lips. "And the first human to ever manage it, too. You should be proud."

The Advent of the Paragons, the fundamental belief that humanity could be better, isn't always clear on what happens to the soul after someone died. But Callum _knows_ his mother was watching over him and Ez all their lives, and he's sure that, if he goes back to the castle and could see ghosts, he'll see his step-father's spirit there. _Almost_ sure. (Harrow might prefer the Banther Lodge.) Souls are real enough--Dark Mages must use them all the time, which is why Viren always seemed a little blurred, like he wasn't really there.

But that meant...

"Growing up," he says, keeping his voice neutral as he can, "we learned a lot of things about the elves that...don't really make sense now. There were stories of Moonshadow Elves who drank human blood, or, or that if you looked directly into a Sunfire Elf's eyes you'd burst into flames. And I know, I know they're silly, they were made up by people who didn't know any better and it just got...passed around? But...we also were told, me and Ez, that elves didn't have _souls_, and that was why you couldn't use them in Dark Magic."

Ibis looks puzzled but not surprised at this.

"It's a simple enough misconception to fix," he says. "But it's also true."

Callum feels his insides clench up.

"From the moment of birth we elves have an inherent connection with our Primal Source," said the older mage. "It's the same with any magical creature. And that connection links us to a greater whole, one that allows us to share information along the way. It's an odd thing, but it also means we feel more at ease around other Primal creatures. Part of the same connection, as it were. Ah, you'll learn in time.

"But souls? Well, we have our lives, certainly, but we're not _alone_ like non-magical creatures are. We've got somewhere to go--back to the Primal Source. Our memories fade, but the strength of our magic goes somewhere else, sometimes into other creatures and sometimes into spells. At least, that's what Aaravos wrote, fifteen hundred years ago. Not like the poor creatures in the west. _They're_ all on their own."

"So...what happens to _them_ after they die?" says Callum, hesitantly. "Or does nobody know?" _Please let nobody know_, he thinks, and feels almost ashamed of the thought.

"My guess is they just...fade away," Ibis replies. "Nowhere to go, only a few tangible connections in the memories of those who knew them in life...still, they do manage to go on. And that's the gift of humans, you understand, your supreme power. _You're all on your own_."

The fact that he says this so calmly, so _pleasantly_, does more strange things to Callum's insides.

The "gift" of humanity is to be alone. Whatever happens after death to the soul, it doesn't join the rest of the Primal Sources in the universe. But that means...

That means that Rayla, when (Mercy forbid) she died, will disappear into the moonlight. And Bait will end up as some light-spell.

And now Callum's a mage, he'll be swallowed up by the sky.

He won't even get to see his parents again, or his little brother, or Rayla. He's gained the Sky, but he's lost what comes next.

They don't talk for the rest of the night. Ibis never quite understands why.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Preservation, that's what this is about.  
\--The beginnings of the Del Bar "mummification" rituals, as performed by Dark Mage Caprian.

_The Catacombs of Mu Dam_

_768 BR (Before the Return of Azymondias)_

Concentrate, now, he has to concentrate. He can’t afford to mess this up.

Caprian focuses on the animal in front of him. It’s a young goat, but a pregnant one, sitting on an altar. This spell is going to need more than one life to work properly. He glances to his left, where fresh human blood–given willingly–sits in a vial, mixed with one or two other ingredients. To his left, the corpse. He dares not glance behind him.

Preservation, that’s what this is about. The clan chiefs of the Del Bar mountains are strange like that. Tell them to lead their warriors to raid a helpless village, kill the defenders and rape the protectors and steal the children for thraldom, and they’ll do it in a heartbeat. Ask them to even block up the doorway to the tomb of their worst enemy? They’ll have you tossed over the side of the peaks they call their own.

The goat is content, chewing on the pile of leaves that he brought here with him. Hopefully they dull the pain somewhat.

Before him lies the open sarcophagus of Chieftain Acernian, once the absolute ruler of the tribe of Sa Ja. His beard, blonde flecked with white, has been carefully combed down to his waist. He wears his strongest armour–he’ll need it, both in battling the Night Spirits and for when he grants his fighting ability to his descendants. Personally Caprian’s less than convinced of this, but he keeps his thoughts to himself. Powerful or not, a Mage of the Seventh Path is just another servant to Chieftain Pratian, the new leader of the Sa Ja. Better that he's able to do something that will convince him of his goodwill, true or not.

Acernian's eyes are closed, and the dagger wound that ended this king’s life--the Final Mercy, they call it, when one’s mind is too far gone for even magic to repair--has been carefully sealed.

A prayer to Wisdom is always appropriate at this point. He also begs the forgiveness of Truth--high in the mountains the Paragon is an old, emaciated man, blinded and bound with a skull-like face--for denying Him one of His followers.

The magic hangs in the air, ready to be used.

He kills the goat. He tries his best not to think about it; it’s just something that needed to be done. He snaps its neck, and then stabs its belly where the unborn kid has to be. Three dead in this place now. The magic builds up, a swirl of anger and terror from the animals killed, and he lets the ghost of the angry mother butt and bite and bleat at his soul. He can handle it. He has no choice right now.

Caprian pours the blood upon the corpses, letting the miasma rise and breathing it all in. He shudders at the smell, but keeps on going. The white staff, his one anchor to the real world outside this nightmare, hums gently to him. It’s encouraging, in its own way.

He recites the spell.

Preservation, that’s what this is about. That’s why this spell has to be done deep within the earth, not out in the open. The Earth creates, said the elves in the Age of Mud, but it also keeps things alive. Where it can’t keep things alive, it keeps them stable. Who ever heard of a metal that changed from one form to another? So this magic has to be within the Earth, away from mercurial water or the ever-changing sky.

From his fingertips, thousands of tiny magical maggots erupt, glowing a ghastly green. They burrow into the armour, into the cloth, into the skin of Acernian, nibbling away at the chieftain’s peaceful form. Down into the flesh they dive, and Caprian can feel them going even deeper, past the muscles to the very bone.

But the body of his old friend remains.

The spell–“_Yaced tuohtiw htaed, gnivil tuohtiw efil_”–has done its work. Acernian’s flesh has been fortified with magic and the blood of his son. As long as his line lasts, he will be there, sitting in this cave, untouched by anything that would choose to defile it. And his descendants will have the strength of the Maple King, who launched forty raids in the warmer lands to the north, and made a hundred thousand widows and widowers.

The green glow dies away, becoming a pearly-white lustre around Acernian.

Caprian finally looks behind him.

Chieftain Pratian, the son of the man whose body he has made effectively immortal, smiles grudgingly, and waves his hand. The swords-men and bow-women he brought with him to this tomb lower their weapons. Pratian jerks his head to the side, beckoning Caprian out of the cave, the guards set to follow behind. Caprian, with no emotion on his face, with no words ever spoken besides his spell, bows and leaves the tomb.

The Dark Magic that Caprian cast to save Acernian from the Sunfire armies--who’d nearly destroyed the three kingdoms lying to the east and tried to melt the mountain around them before the horse-lords of Narangerel had brought reinforcements--caused the chief to go into shock. He hadn’t recovered, and after the Final Mercy Caprian had been held accountable. And so, in a bargain with the new chief--Acernian's nephew, a boy whom he’d seen grow up, and whom he’d tried to wean out of those destructive, sadistic habits--he offered to make the king and (more importantly) his line everlasting.

Acernian, victor of a hundred battles, will live on, and so will Pratian, and in time so will Pratian’s line. And Caprian will be banished from the mountains of Del Bar, for the rest of his natural life.

It's getting easier and easier not to care about that.

Preservation, that’s what this is about. Self-preservation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yeah, a little bit before the present day, but what do you think?

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally my first time ever writing from Callum's perspective, so please be gentle.  
As always, comments, compliments, and even (and especially) criticisms are very welcome!


End file.
